by Marilyn Todd
‘You’ve got too many bloody clothes on.’
‘Morin, please.’ Every time they had a kiss and cuddle these days, it turned into a wrestling match.
‘Aye, that’s the word. Please. You want to please me…’ Mouth and hands roved over her exposed flesh. ‘Please will I touch you…’
To her shame, Lisyl’s body didn’t respond, and he mistook her squirms for wriggles of pleasure. ‘You won’t regret this,’ he whispered. ‘It’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened, you wait. Open up a world of pleasure beyond your imagination. Husband and wife. Me and you—’
‘All right, all right. But not now. Not here, Morin.’
He sat up. ‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’ She covered herself up, her cheeks flaming. ‘But I’m serious. When I surrender my virginity, it needs to be somewhere special.’
‘A special place for a special occasion for my special girl,’ he said proudly. ‘Leave it to me, and I swear it’ll be an experience you’ll remember the rest of your life.’ He helped her to her feet and gave her a kiss. ‘I love you, Lis. Honest I do.’
‘I know you do, you ugly great lump.’ She kissed him back. ‘And I love you, too, only for goodness’ sake, will you please let me get back to work?’
‘Tonight? When you say late, you’ll definitely come, though? I mean, I’ve told my whole family you’re attending the Feast of the Eagles, and I don’t want to look stupid.’
‘You could never look that, love.’ She put her arms round his big, hard middle and squeezed. ‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me from meeting your clan.’
She bundled up her laundry, now grubbier than ever, and ran off, picking bits of straw out of her hair. Morin looked at the pitchfork, thought for a minute, then decided to quench his thirst first. With long strides he set off for the well, whistling as he went.
Behind the last stall at the end of the stable block, a figure slowly rose to its feet.
Twelve
Iliona was faced with two choices. Either have her long-awaited massage and forego the Eagles’ Feast in order to have a good snoop while there was just a skeleton crew on tonight, or forego the massage in favour of a poke around now. Either way, the afternoon was out. With men, who made up the majority of the guests, flitting back and forth between the bath house and the accommodation block, visiting the barber’s, lifting weights or throwing javelins in the gymnasium, a woman would stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.
So, then. Tempting as it was to have Dierdra pummel her aches and knead away her pains, it made sense to shelve her pleasure until tomorrow morning. Especially when few people were interested in anything other than themselves at the moment! The only two she’d need to watch out for were Ballio, and the priest who served the Blue Goddess. Surely, that wasn’t beyond her?
Leaving the bath house, her hair still slightly damp, she noticed a very tall, very broad young man striding out of the stables, with dark, curly hair and a smug grin on his face. She watched him head for the well, douse himself with water from the bucket, then engage in chit-chat with half a dozen bleary-eyed grooms. Their body language suggested much time would be spent comparing hangovers. What better opportunity to investigate the stables?
She took a casual stroll round the yard, glancing towards the lake, where a score of laundresses on their knees scrubbed clothes with rather less enthusiasm than usual, rinsing them, wringing them, then laying them out on the stones to dry off. Melisanne’s pretty, dark-haired sister scampered down to join them, her hair tousled and her tunic askew. Another one suffering the Axe God’s wrath? Iliona wondered. Or could her boyfriend’s grin have any bearing on Lisyl’s dishevelment?
Outside the porter’s lodge, several servant girls were cooing over the guard dog’s new puppies, scribes penned letters from dictation under the awnings and moneylenders weighed coins with deft hands. Further out, in the yard, the Illyrian envoy was preparing to leave with his entourage, as was the hypochondriac merchant, while a courier wearing the King of Thrace’s colours was benefiting from a quick change of horse and a runner adjusted his sandal straps before setting off. Hector was placing food on the altars to Zeus and Apollo, an itinerant minstrel strummed his tortoiseshell lyre and servants rumbled amphorae over the cobbles.
No one noticed the high priestess slip into the stables.
After the clamour of the yard, the clang of the blacksmith’s anvil and the thud of the wheelwright’s hammer, the silence was stunning. Maybe the odd rustle of a mouse through the hay, the occasional lazy drone of a wasp, the creak of timbers up in the hayloft. Otherwise nothing. Complete, dry, dust-sprinkled silence. Why wasn’t everyone nursing their hangovers in here?
The stable block was vast. Three, four, possibly even five times larger than her own stud, but then hers didn’t cater for scores of donkeys, oxen and mules. She scratched her head. If the rocks were indeed hidden in here, the expression needles and haystacks was not wide of the mark, and counting the grains of sand on the seashore would be a piece of cake in comparison. Then again. With donkeys carrying the gold on to Sparta, it was always possible that the thieves might be pulling a double bluff and hiding the stolen gold inside the saddle blankets. She could do worse than start her search there.
Not dissimilar to the mattresses that poor people slept on, saddle blankets were made of wool and stuffed with sweet-smelling dried grass, although few helots slept with leather belly-straps round them! Once the blanket was secure and the animal made comfortable, the load could be added, and asses were capable of hauling quite heavy weights. However, for long, arduous journeys over the mountains, the load per beast was rarely onerous, dismissing any theory of the gold being divvied up in Sparta within seconds.
For one thing, had it been stuffed inside the saddle blankets, the pack-master would have noticed chafing on the animals’ backs and reported it. And even if the pack-master was the thief (though as a helot, it was unlikely he’d have either the resources or the social network to plan such a crime) any animals tasked with additional loads would tire faster and stand out a mile. As would any change in the shape of the blanket. Pack animals were chosen for the straightness of their spines, since a bent back would create a tendency for the load to slip, despite strappings round their chest and rump. A man-made hump might as well have a sign hung on it: ‘Look Here.’ There was no way the gold had been hidden on, in, or under the saddle.
Iliona was back to square one.
Though at least it lent substance to Lysander’s theory that the interception was here, at the station. Feeling very much at home among the acid stench of horses, she systematically prodded the stalls with a pitchfork. Again, she thought, needles and haystacks…
‘Looking for anything in particular, my lady?’
‘Hector.’ A professional smile covered some rather unprofessional butterflies. ‘Just being nosey, I’m afraid. These stables aren’t anything like my own.’
‘Lucky you.’ He let out a soft snort. ‘Not knowing whether you have too many or too few animals at any one time. Never knowing if you’ll be catering for changing them two, five, eight times a day—or then again none at all.’
Until now, and despite the lines on his face, Hector hadn’t struck her as the worrying kind, although she was well aware that conscientious men are often kept awake at night by their problems. She wondered how well Anthea slept.
‘Trade is an unpredictable mistress, Hector.’
He shot her a sharp glance, though whether that was from seeing the High Priestess of Eurotas wielding a pitchfork in his stables or the result of a guilty conscience, she couldn’t tell.
‘Unlike politics,’ he replied sourly. ‘Which never stops.’
‘The new courier service is proving popular, then?’
‘Not without teething troubles, my lady.’
‘I’m sure the joint heads of state understand that, being still in its infancy, it’s hardly an exact science.’
‘To say we’re learning is an understa
tement,’ he muttered, then bowed. ‘Sorry. My problems are not your problems, I have no desire to burden you. How rude of me.’ He rubbed his hands briskly to change the subject. ‘I’d be happy to give you a guided tour, if you like, though when it comes to this side of the business, my wife is the horsy one. Best if she showed you round. Expert to expert and all that.’
‘I look forward to it.’
Out in the paddocks, Yvorna was tugging Cadur’s sleeve with what could only be described as a sense of urgency. She didn’t appear to be urging him to follow her at all. The gesture seemed more by way of emphasis on what she was saying, though for his part, Cadur was shrugging his shoulders, as if to say there was nothing he could do. Yvorna obviously thought otherwise and the way Cadur rubbed his face with his free hand suggested she was winning the battle. Not defeat, exactly, Iliona decided. More that he was conceding to give extra consideration to what she was asking. Iliona could almost hear him agreeing to try, but that he couldn’t promise.
‘I presume you’ll be attending the Feast of the Eagles,’ Hector was saying. ‘It takes place close to the summit of Sentry Mountain at midnight, so I will have your stallion saddled and ready from dusk.’
‘Thank you.’
He offered his arm. She accepted.
‘They’re celebrating the first moon of the hunting season, but quite honestly, the way the mountain men and lowlanders face each other off can be quite childish. Both sides play up their festivities, timing them so they almost clash, but not quite. The aim is to outdo one another, and they need each other’s yardstick for that.’ He smiled. ‘There is a lot of posturing still.’
Iliona thought of the frescoes on her wall. ‘I’ll bet.’
He steered her to the far end of the block, where the stables led into open-fronted sheds which housed various wagons and carts, most of which were still loaded with timber, hemp, roof tiles and granite. A couple of them were full of amphorae of olive oil, carefully padded with straw, and one piled with grains of wheat.
‘Not the most common form of transport,’ Hector said. ‘They’re too slow and too cumbersome, and only any good on the flat. But heavy vehicles are also proving more popular these days, simply for the loads they can carry, and already there is talk of enlarging these sheds.’
‘If the roads were in better condition, wagons might catch on more.’
‘I don’t know what it’s like in your neck of the woods, my lady, but the roads are well nigh impassable here in the winter. Carts would get stuck in the mud, ruts would twist the wheels off. Personally, I can’t see any need for expansion. I’m convinced the novelty will quickly wear off.’
Iliona had stopped listening a while back. ‘Would Nobilor’s chariot have been stowed under cover?’
‘Most definitely. The hot sun is no friend to painted woodwork, my lady. It dries the grease on the axle pins and fades the colours. Every vehicle that passes through this station is garaged in the lean-to.’
‘Who has access to this area?’
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Melisanne set a single straw at right-angles on the table, then retreat silently indoors.
‘Huh? Oh. Uh…everyone who works in the yard has access to the sheds. The field hands often take their meal breaks in the shade, and it’s a popular spot for the staff to congregate, because they can talk without the master nagging at them. They think I don’t know, but I do. I know everything that goes on in this station.’ He smiled. ‘Why do you ask?’
This wasn’t the time to start airing theories that his chariot might have been sabotaged. ‘I was thinking of Nobilor’s privacy issues,’ she said lightly. ‘Even here, it seems, the poor man would have been mobbed.’
‘Fame has its consequences,’ Hector murmured, ‘but anonymity carries a far higher price. Is there a problem, Ballio?’
The thin nose of the warrant officer peered from behind one of the wagons. ‘Just admiring the coachworks.’ He tapped the wooden side with his knuckles. ‘Made by a good craftsman, this. Look at the axle. Those joints. Marvellous workmanship. Superb.’
‘I’m sure.’ Hector picked up the straw lying at right-angles on the table. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, my lady, I need to see what kind of a mess the Illyrian envoy’s party have left behind.’ He seemed unaware that he was sniffing the straw. ‘Six men, far from home, who aren’t exactly teetotal. Repercussions are quick to manifest themselves.’
Not a physical mess. More a psychological muddle. And these men had only stayed for three nights…
‘Like the lilies that beautify the Blue Goddess’s aspect,’ a low voice intoned, ‘indiscretions will also rise to the surface.’
Hector’s face reddened. ‘Quite so,’ he told Sandor. ‘But like the alder sacred to Zabrina, whose bark yields a red dye, whose flowers yield green, and from whose twigs comes a rich brown pigment, there is strength in diversity.’
‘I disagree,’ the priest said. ‘That which is divided always grows weaker. Is that not so, my lady?’
He wasn’t asking her opinion, he was picking a fight. To agree with Hector would give Sandor ammunition, while to side with him would be to drive a wedge between her and her host.
‘When you take coals from a fire and distribute them evenly, the heat from them withers and dies, just as when you saw a spoke out of a wheel, the vehicle becomes destabilized.’ She watched his gooseberry eyes glow with satisfaction. ‘But when a clump of chives becomes congested in the herb garden, the plant becomes healthier for being divided,’ she said. ‘And I can assure you that when a jug of wine is divided between friends, that friendship most definitely grows stronger.’
‘Spoken with true wisdom,’ Hector said, bowing. ‘Now about that Illyrian envoy.’
She watched him saunter back through the stables, chewing the straw Melisanne had left on the table. Ballio could have been carved out of stone.
‘Will you gentlemen be attending the feast tonight?’ she asked cheerfully.
‘Men of Phaos aren’t welcome, ma’am.’ The warrant officer patted his insignia.
‘Those who serve Zabrina must support all factions,’ Sandor said. ‘The Goddess is as impartial as she is gentle.’
‘Yet you did not attend the Festival of the Axe God?’
‘Regrettably, I had other business to attend to,’ he replied through gritted teeth.
‘Important business indeed, for it to take precedence over showing impartiality to both factions.’
‘Be careful,’ he warned in a whisper that only Iliona could hear. ‘Be very, very careful. Even the strongest oak can fall in a gale.’
‘Then we must give thanks to your Blue Goddess that the winds are set to stay fair.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Perhaps you would help me choose an appropriate offering?’
*
Out on the wide open plains of Macedonia, dotted by cornel and broom and low-branching gnarled oaks, the commander of the gold train watched for bandits. Unaware of what really happened to his predecessor, he was under the impression that Gregos had been thrown from his horse and had broken a leg, giving him the chance of promotion he’d been waiting for. He vowed to himself that he would not be found wanting on this mission and scanned the horizon like a hawk.
Quite frankly, robbers would be foolish to tackle so many armed men in such an exposed position. The helots were first-rate archers, every one. Also ten donkeys—five to carry the gold and five to spell them—plus mules to transport their daily supplies would make for excellent defence cover for the detail. But the new commander was keen to acquit himself and kept a careful eye out as they crossed the windswept mountain pastures and rushing rivers.
Nothing moved, but he, like the rest of the team, remained on the alert. Their careers depended on the safety of this caravan. Each would lay down their life to protect the gold.
At least, this is what the new commander believed.
*
‘Careful? If anyone needs to be careful, it’s that dirty little pervert.’ Angry scisso
rs cut through Iliona’s bandage. ‘The bastard was spying on me while I was naked in the pool.’
‘Sandor? Are you sure?’
‘Trust me, I know a depraved piece of shit when I see it, and for once his eyes had a reason to bulge.’ Nothing like a nice, hard kick in the balls to make them pop. ‘Was he limping?’
‘He didn’t seem too comfortable.’
‘Good. At least it’s put paid to his peeping for a while.’ No fun, when the equipment’s out of order. ‘Bite on this.’ Jocasta pushed a twig between the patient’s teeth and proceeded to wash the wound with a mix of vinegar and water. ‘You’re doing well,’ she said, ‘there’s no putrefaction, but I don’t understand why the skin’s not healing faster. Are you sure you rested while I was gone yesterday?’
‘Quite sure.’
Must be the altitude, Jocasta supposed. Might be the water…
‘What are my chances of dissuading you from riding your horse to the Feast of the Eagles?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Then I’ll need to double the strength of the medicaments.’
In a small bowl, she set to blending thyme oil, yarrow and a creamy juice from the plane tree.
‘According to one of the couriers,’ she said slowly, ‘Athens has just put a woman on trial for practising medicine.’
It was rare for Jocasta to give credence to hearsay, for Rumour is a dangerous friend. Uninvited, he comes and goes at any hour of his choosing, changing his form at every turn, and the worst part is, you never hear him approach. Only a vague whispering, like the sound of waves breaking on a distant seashore, signals his departure, and though he claims to see everything that goes on in heaven and on earth, his words flit like bees loaded with pollen, the false mixed with the true. As he trickles his tales into indiscriminate ears, the story grows bigger every time it is told…
This was different, though. She could not afford to dismiss such a rumour. Not when the implications for herself were so grave.
‘Practising medicine while female isn’t a crime provided you’re employed at the temple,’ Iliona assured her. ‘Your healing skills are bestowed on you by the River God, Eurotas. That’s all you ever need to say.’